Obviously
by Nintendorina
Summary: Sherlock hasn't solved a case in four days. Naturally, everyone's favourite sociopath is incredibly bored and setting John's teeth on edge. He finally receives a call from DI Lestrade to investigate the apparent murder of a young woman in Trafalgar Square. Rated T for mild themes and infrequent coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

It was a gloomy Sunday morning in Baker St, and within 221B loomed an even gloomier atmosphere. It had been four days since Sherlock had solved a case, and I was feeling the full brunt of his frustration. His boredom took effect in numerous forms; from annoying habits – like picking his teeth – to, on one very recent occasion, playing Russian roulette with an old-style revolver, at the time I was returning with the weekly shopping. I had even called in Detective Inspector Lestrade and begged him to stop. He then told me he ran out of bullets after shooting the couch cushions, and pointed to a pair of mutilated cushions, with stuffing exploding from every singeing bullet hole. Shame, I liked those – they might have been able to hide my red face of embarrassment. Right now, he's perched on his armchair with his feet tucked up close to him, resting his head on his knee caps. His iPhone sat on the coffee table between us, his usually piercing blue eyes staring listlessly into the screen. The flat was eerily silent as he willed the phone to ring by gazing into it, while I flicked through last week's Sunday paper, trying not to invoke a sullen complaint from Sherlock.

'John… I'm bored' he muttered, probably more to himself than to me.

'You know you solved a case less than a week ago?' I responded. He sat up and wore a frown across his sharp, angular face.

'Oh, it was _hardly _a case, John. How did no one notice the relationship between the screwdriver and the chocolate biscuits? God, you haven't even written a blog about it yet – even you, on some subconscious level, think it's stupidly obvious, too!' he retorted, exasperated at the level of 'stupid' to which he felt subjected. I rolled my eyes and let my paper crumple beneath my arms.

'How could someone _POSSIBLY_ make a connection between those? I mean, honestly! How does someone identify a brand of chocolate biscuit from a few little crumbs found near the point of entry? And the exact brand and serial number of a screwdriver that was used to jimmy the back door open?' I asked in desperation, straining myself to try and see from Sherlock's super-computer perspective. He ruffled his curly locks with his long fingers and head-butted his knee caps in sheer frustration.

'The hell does it matter? I'm bored, people are stupid and I want a case!' he shouted through his bared teeth, slamming his fist onto the arm of his chair. Suddenly, the silent iPhone bleeped and whirred on the coffee table. I will say at this point that this is the first time I have ever seen Sherlock _dive _from his armchair to answer his phone. He didn't even stop to listen to the ringtone.

'Lestrade?' he asked, hopefully. I looked on, wondering who was on the other end. Judging by Sherlock's expression, Lestrade is asking for Sherlock's opinion on a new and difficult case. _Wow_, I thought, _maybe even I can do the whole deduction thing, too_. He looked at me with an encouraging smile. I smiled back and nodded, hoping his mood wouldn't become even more sour if this case proved as 'obvious' as the last. I'm still trying to figure out how a screwdriver and biscuit crumbs convicted a man, but regardless, Sherlock solved that case in a matter of days. He ended his call, and looked back at me. I blinked, not really knowing what to say.

'Good news?' I asked. He tilted his head on the side and winced, as if he didn't know whether it was.

'Someone's dead in Trafalgar Square. Can that be considered a good thing or not?' he asked as he walked to the table to grab his coat and slip it on. I nodded enthusiastically.

'Whatever stops you from shooting pillows and picking your teeth' I smirked, as I jumped to my feet. Sherlock gave me a sardonic glare and slipped his favourite scarf around his slender neck and we headed out towards another case, which hopefully won't be as 'obvious' and 'stupid' as the last.


	2. Chapter 2

'Morning, Sherlock, John' Lestrade greeted us with a friendly wave. We exchanged a few pleasantries before turning our attention to the dead woman at our feet. She lay on her back, in a garden bed behind a thick hedge, which had been disturbed not too long ago. Sherlock kneeled down to inspect the body while I got the details from Lestrade. She was a pretty young thing with heels that could most likely have been a murder weapon, a body like a supermodel, and wearing make-up that looked like it would weigh a ton on her face.

'Name's Emily Cunningham. She's got a positive ID in her wallet, which the killer didn't take-'

'Obviously!' Sherlock ejaculated from below, his gaze fixed intently on her exposed thigh. I nudged him with my knee square in the spine and returned my attention to Lestrade.

'Single gunshot between the eyes, no sign of a struggle and no apparent reason to be here' he concluded. I nodded and we turned to Sherlock.

'Go on, then. Do your stuff' Lestrade chuckled.

'You've been waiting for this all week' I added. Lestrade and I chuckled, while Sherlock stood up and looked down at the body.

'The girl's about twenty years old. She worked as a receptionist at a local garage. She was meant to be here to meet up with a wealthy customer, who was also her lover – probably a sugar-daddy sort of situation. Lover shot her elsewhere and dumped her here.' His deduction reeled off his tongue like it was nothing. Lestrade nodded, but had an unsure expression.

'But how -' Sherlock groaned and cut Lestrade's sentence short, as if it was damningly obvious, and staring at him in the face – which was quite accurate, because the girl had her glassy, dry eyes wide open and glaring at Lestrade.

'The girl is wearing professional attire – but not too expensive or flashy, something an office worker would wear. She could be any type of office worker, but she's young, got shockingly bright peroxide hair and is wearing a tiny dress with massive heels, so receptionist it is. Obviously she wears this sort of attire for attention – probably in a male-dominated industry. One could say a post office, or a law firm, but this outfit is racy, it's saucy; she'd get in trouble for this at a post office, and she's too young to be working in a firm at the age of twenty unless she started her law degree at fifteen, sixteen – so which other industry requires receptionists and is male-dominated? Garage, obviously. She's just finished up from work, because the smell of fuel is quite fresh, and her perfume, despite spraying four, five – no, six times – across her hair and neck, isn't doing anything to cover the smell. As a young woman in her position, dressed like a tart and surrounded by men with brains, collectively, the size of a peanut, she would have to keep the customers happy – especially rich, male customers with Jaguars. Jaguar, you ask? Yes, obviously! There is an imprint of the logo of a Jaguar on the back of her thigh, quite high up, which indicates she was sitting on his keys – perhaps on his lap, or on the car seat, but the former is probably more so the fact; and it also indicates that she hasn't been dead for very long, maybe only half an hour or so. It's quite probable that this older lover could be her boss, because of the expense of the car and the fact she wouldn't go for anyone that couldn't provide her with cash, but a customer is also quite likely. She came here, wanting to meet with her fancy rich lover, as indicated by this company appointment card from a garage, walking distance from here – so now the boss is looking more likely. His wife found out about the affair, went to break it off with the young woman, creates a scene and threatens to expose something which would, obviously, harm his position and ends up shooting her between the eyes' Sherlock stated, probably without taking a single pause. Lestrade and I stared at him, trying to digest the supernova of information he had imparted on us. After a moment's silence, Sherlock piped up.

'Had I missed anything?' he asked. Lestrade and I shook our heads solemnly, and tried not to crack a smile.

'God, you _must_ have been bored' Lestrade said. Sherlock's eyes widened, tilted his head, mockingly and sharply inhaled through his nose - which could be taken as Sherlock sign-language for 'obviously', but couldn't be bothered to say it for the hundredth time in the past thirty-odd seconds. Lestrade went to open his mouth, but for fear that he might make Sherlock utter another 'obvious', I interjected as quickly as possible:

'To the garage, then?' I asked. Sherlock simply nodded and lead the way. Perhaps he was also sick of hearing his favourite word.


	3. Chapter 3

Within fifteen minutes, we reached the garage, fronted by a busty young woman looking very similar to Cunningham. Sherlock leaned on the counter and gave a dashing smile – something of which I really wasn't expecting Sherlock to be capable.

'Hi, there-'

'Hello, sir!' the busty brunette called behind him. She was looking straight at Lestrade, whose silvery hair must have attracted the girl. He gave a dumbfounded look and pointed at himself. She nodded, and gestured him to come closer.

'How may I _service_ you, sir?' she asked, coyly, with a lock of long hair wrapped around her finger. She chewed her gum loudly between large gnashing teeth which occasionally bit her lower lip. Sherlock sulked.

'It's _serve_, not _service_!' Sherlock muttered. I leaned in towards him.

'I think she knows what she means, Sherlock…' I suggested. We both looked on at the thunderstruck Lestrade and the flirtatious and supposedly grammatically-ignorant young woman.

'We have a very good deal on brake service, £300 with a free oil check' she spoke slowly and coquettishly. Lestrade nodded like an idiot, and almost handed over the money without a moment's thought. Suddenly, from behind a door, an older man emerged and addressed the woman. He was rather stocky, with an unkempt, thick, bushy black and grey moustache. A set of Jaguar keys jangled from the belt hook on his work pants.

'Carla! What have I told you about making _deals_ with non-VIP customers?' he spat in his thick American-Italian accent, and pound his fist on her desk. She jolted and almost fell backwards. He shot a look towards us and pointed.

'Who're these guys, huh?' he snarled. Sherlock extended his hand.

'Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr Watson… And our blithering idiot, Detective Inspector Lestrade' he said politely, or as close as he can come to politeness. The man looked at his hand and folded his arms.

'What're you doin', bothering my girl? She's got work to do' he asked, shooting a glance back to the pair, who stood away from the three and continued flirting. She was writing her name and number on a calling card. One that very closely resembled the card Emily Cunningham was carrying. The American snapped his fingers and the girl stepped away from Lestrade and stood beside the other man. She mouthed an apology towards the grinning Lestrade.

'Oh, I am dreadfully sorry. Is she your daughter?' he asked, quite obviously being his sardonic self. He glared with beady, angry eyes and grabbed the woman's tiny wrist.

'No. Now what are you here for, huh?' he demanded, gripping the woman's wrist even tighter, to the point where she began to protest. Lestrade slipped the card into his pocket and seemed to be let off the hook from the young woman's charm.

'Nothing, initially. But now I've solved a murder, so I have plenty to do' he smirked. He let go of the woman, and walked towards Sherlock. He looked rather intimidating, right up until he realised he was much shorter than the six-foot-four Sherlock Holmes. He backed up and licked his lips.

'You the police or somethin'?' he asked, cracking his knuckles into a very calloused and cracked palm. Sherlock was undeterred by the, dare I say it, obvious threat made upon him.

'Lestrade is; I'm not. I'm _much_ more efficient and effective than Scotland Yard' he said, his eyes scanning him for evidence.

'Whaddaya gonna charge me with, Mr Policeman?' he mocked. Sherlock kept a level head and a steely determination as he analysed his prey. After some time, he finally spoke.

'You're running an illegal escort service' he announced. The man, rather than getting angry, remained silent. He exhaled sharply out of his nose.

'My escort service is an underground secret operation, which has been ongoing for eighteen months. No one outside this garage knows about it. How the hell did you find out? Who told you?' he asked. Sherlock smirked.

'No one told me. It's written all over this room' he replied. The American man stood confused. Sherlock took a breath.

'When I found Emily Cunningham outside in Trafalgar Square, I immediately worked out that you were her lover, as well as her murderer. She was as escort, one of the favourites, judging by the expense of her perfume. Dior isn't a cheap brand. She wanted to keep you as her lover and co-runner of the operation, but you were worried about her constant companionship, and lied to her about having a wife to try and keep her away. She must have threatened to turn you over to the police if you didn't stay with her, and that's why you killed her. Obviously she didn't mean very much to you, because she's not even cold and you've found yourself another lover? Obviously, she isn't a proper lover, but one of your call girls for your escort harem – but Emily wasn't for sale, was she?'

'But I didn't kill her-'

'No, not out on the street – that would be stupid, even for you. There was an imprint on her thigh from where she had been sitting on your lap, probably in your prized Jaguar, the keys to which are attached to the belt slip on the left hand side of your pants – matching the imprint on Cunningham's right thigh, from when she was straddling you in your car only an hour or two ago. That's when and where you wanted to break it off. You shot her inside the car, drove to Trafalgar Square and dumped her behind a hedge. You managed to get back into your office, unseen, where you have been able to find fresh clothes – seeing as they aren't nearly wrinkled enough to have been worn since this morning – and clean up any residual blood spatter. You have, however, missed a little spot on your shoe, your thumbnail and have paid no attention to the powder burns on the fingers of your left hand. Lestrade, phone in your friends – I've just solved this case'


	4. Chapter 4

After the eventual arrest of the American wannabe pimp, we were situated back in Baker St, taking our usual positions in our respective chairs. Silence filled the room as it had done earlier this morning, Sherlock looking slightly less depressed as he had done before we got the call. I continued to read the paper, and Sherlock sat in silence, looking at the ceiling.

'John… I'm bored. Again' he muttered after some time. I almost fell out of my chair with shock, and – perhaps, admittedly – wanting to hit him.

'What did you say about an hour ago? _'Lestrade, call in your friends, I've just solved this case'_? We left here at about half eleven, and it's now, what, 1:30? How in God's name can you still be bored?' I cried. Sherlock sniggered.

'That was _ages_ ago' he whined through a sniggering grin, clearly trying to wind me up. I sighed loudly, and decided to drop the matter.

'Cup of tea, John?' he offered, politely.

'I'd love one' I said, peering over the top of my paper. He leaned back in his chair and smiled.

'That's great. I'll have my usual, thank you'

'…'


End file.
